Barrett slammed the gas pedal to the floor, and the engine roared. Two haughty headlights pierced the darkness. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and crouched forward in the seat. No one ahead. Mechanically he cast a glance in the rearview mirror. No one. Barely a minute passed without him checking every window for possible pursuers. He existed as a hunted man now. He counted each day a victory, one more twenty-four hours alive and uncaptured. He wouldn’t fool himself though. He could run for now but not forever. He glanced at the gun lying on the passenger seat next to him, its outline barely visible in the light of the car’s dashboard. He licked his cracked lips and swallowed.
I was so close. I was almost frickin’ there.
He thought of that pivotal day a few weeks ago—the day his life ended when it should have just begun again. When he got off the conference call with Starkley, he felt his world restored. In just a few short hours, he knew he would see his name broadcasted on every news station: “President Starkley appoints Barrett Ramsey, Secretary of Cybersecurity.” “Ramsey’s 4tress Security Uncovers Military Coup and Saves the Nation.” “Starkley Says She Owes it All to 4tress Security.” He even logged onto his bank accounts, grinning at the new balances, his fortune returned—and then some. For the first time in months, he went to bed and slept soundly without a single nightmare. The next morning, he would begin his life anew.
But instead, that’s when everything derailed. His first action after awakening was to check the news. He flipped open his laptop, anticipation drumming in his ears. He stared at the headlines. “Starkley Dead.” “Air Force One Shot Down.” “NCP Blames the Opposition.” “Secretary of War Hochenshield: We must stop at nothing now.”
He had collapsed into his chair, dumbfounded. A great chasm opened inside him, and he felt like a man falling … falling … falling from the heights he had just achieved. Not a single article mentioned his name. His hopes and dreams were dead, right alongside Starkley. He reflected on her pensive face during their computer call, mere hours before. Had she suspected? Had she agreed to his demands, knowing that they would never see the light of day? He clenched his fists. That little … so she got the last laugh in the end after all …
Barrett then threw open his bedroom door and hollered for Tyrell, shouting a flurry of instructions. The JPD would be after him; they had no time to spare. They had to get the hell out of there before it was too late. Barrett pushed Tyrell out the door—he had to get the money out of the bank before the NCP seized it again. Time was of the essence. Meanwhile Barrett grabbed his few possessions and loaded up the car. He sat in the passenger seat, glancing up and down the road, waiting for Tyrell to come back. The bank was within walking distance. It should be no more than ten minutes round trip. Barrett shifted in his seat, tapping his foot. Where the hell is Tyrell?
Each minute crept by like an hour. Barrett gritted his teeth and pulled out his cell phone. Dialing Tyrell’s number, he waited as the phone rang … and rang ... and rang … They should be on the road by now!
Barrett was about to hang up when suddenly he heard a click.
“Tyrell!” Barrett barked. “Didn’t I tell you to hustle? What the hell do you think you’re doing? We should’ve left by now, and I’m just sitting here waiting for your ugly face to finally show. What are you waiting for—a gun pointed to your head? Did you get the money out of my accounts or what?”
Barrett furrowed his eyebrows, waiting for that idiot to respond. But the seconds dragged by without a single word. Barrett held the phone closer to his ear, and, barely discernible, he detected the sound of someone on the other end of the line … inhaling … exhaling … listening to him.
That’s not Tyrrell.
Heart pounding in his chest, Barrett ended the call. He clambered over the console, into the driver seat, and, tires squealing, pulled the car onto the road. Someone had gotten to Tyrrell. Well, let them try and get Barrett. He wasn’t going down without a fight.
As the NCP ordered everyone to shelter in their homes while the JPD combed the nation for any opposition, Barrett himself hunkered down in an abandoned warehouse in a remote corner of New Hampshire. Weeks went by. He huddled in the vacant, empty, dusty factory space, leaving only to steal food from a restaurant down the street, which remained closed during the national lockdown. He risked the trip as sparingly as possible.
Every creak in the old building sent him on full alert. Cars passing by during the night made him wake in a cold sweat. He had no phone, computer, or radio … no Tyrell to abuse and release his fury upon … just his own thoughts, which never quieted. He scrambled from one plan to another, weighing the risks and plotting, always plotting. He knew the NCP was a sinking ship. Starkley’s death will have created a power vacuum. Everyone’s going to grab for control and, like hungry dogs, they’ll tear each other apart. The opposition can sit back and just laugh at them now. The NCP will do its own work destroying itself. I just need to lay low until the opportune time.
As long as he was alive, he had a chance to win. Never give up. Never.
And who cares if I’m alone? I’ve never needed anyone else. Hell with Tyrell. He weighed me down. I can take care of myself. They can all watch me rise again. They can’t keep me down. They’ll see. I’ll laugh in their faces one day. I’ll have the final word, just watch.
But as time passed insomnia began to affect his clarity. He could sense the way it lumbered his mind. He reviewed the same puzzle over and over, contemplating every angle. How to get out of this hole? How to get back on top? The questions never left him. They never changed. The only interruption was the heart-pounding tenseness as he heard a strange noise or noticed a car slowing down as it passed the old warehouse.
His strength ebbed. At first, he tried to force himself to exercise, even if just walking up and down the metal flight of stairs in the warehouse. But even this exertion became arduous. His body screamed for sleep; his racing mind would only permit a few hours of fitful rest. Someone could find me. I have to be prepared. I can’t let them catch me off guard.
Then one evening, as the sun set in the west, he caught a black figure drawing near. He tensed and then immediately sprang forward to attack, hurling punches and obscenities at the enemy. His fist pounded into the concrete wall and he screamed in pain and terror, collapsing onto the cold, bare floor, clutching his bruised and bleeding knuckles. Panting, he stared up in front of him. A shadow, cast by the sinking sun, flickered on the wall. Nothing’s there. It’s all in my head. I thought I saw someone. It was only a shadow.
He ripped off part of his shirt and wound the band of cloth around his hand. At last, he allowed himself to acknowledge that he couldn’t stay at the warehouse any longer. It would drive him mad in the end. After all, that’s not how I’m built. I’m a man of action. I’m no coward who hides away waiting to be destroyed. Why should I be on the defensive? I’ve done nothing wrong. No, I’ll start playing my old game. I’m taking the offensive. I’ll go where I can be free. And if I meet the enemy along the way … well, hell, I’ll take him down!
That night he walked out of the warehouse and got into his empty car. He began to drive, avoiding any major cities as much as possible. He had his destination in mind: Canada. The JPD would certainly guard the border. He didn’t know yet how he’d manage to get past them, but he had time to figure that out.
That was yesterday. Now the problem of passing through the border seemed remote. He faced a bigger obstacle: he was almost out of gas. He had no money. He couldn’t get to Canada on an empty tank.
He cracked the window open and the crisp night air hit his face. The limited possibilities floated before him. He could drive to the nearest house and steal their money. He had the gun and could take care of anyone who opposed him. The JPD had already invited citizens to join the killing of any opposition members. Many people had begun looting homes and businesses—even those belonging to members of the NCP. Law and order had largely slipped away by this point and, if it meant securing his life, Barrett had no qualms about taking another’s.
But the bigger problem was where? He scanned the road on either side of him: darkness. No house or building anywhere. Suddenly an orange light lit up his dashboard: an image of a gas tank. He gritted his teeth and banged the steering wheel, letting loose a string of curses. Well, fine. I’ll push the car to the very end. I’ll run it completely dry.
The car crested a hill and far below lay a sprawling city, the many lights blazing in the near distance. It must be the outskirts of Montreal. Barrett slowed the car to a stop. His eyes widened, and he frowned. Further along the road, between him and the city, stood a dozen or so cars in a line, stopped and searchlights on. As he stared, a small sedan approached and came to a halt before the checkpoint. Barrett watched a handful of men descend upon the car.
It’s the JPD. They’re stopping every vehicle trying to enter the city. His stomach lurched. They know I’m trying to get there. They’re one step ahead of me. They’re waiting for me.
Beads of sweat broke out along his forehead. With trembling fingers, he pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road and killed the lights. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt dry. He jumped at the purring of a car engine, making its way up the hill behind him. Someone’s coming! Barrett grabbed the gun on the passenger seat and scurried from the car, dashing into the shadows of trees beyond the gravel. The driver checked his speed, slowing down and then pausing, staring at Barrett’s parked car.
Damn it!
Barrett could already predict the next train of events. The driver—whoever the hell he was—would tell the JPD officers just up ahead about the vacant car. They’d begin to comb the area. They’d find him.
Barrett stumbled through the darkness, branches scraping against his face. His wobbly legs barely kept him up straight. His mind went numb, exhaustion giving way to panic. Through the haze, he desperately tried to regain control of his emotions and body. Just one foot in front of the other. I’m still ahead of them. They don’t know where I am yet. And if they do find me … He clutched the gun tighter in his grasp. I’ll take out as many of them as I can. I’ll kill them all!
The space in front of him began to lighten. Pulling back some pine branches, Barrett looked out upon a small ledge, a ravine many yards below him and the starry sky above. In his state, the height made him dizzy. He lowered himself to a crouch, his hands on the bare, cold earth. His movements jarred a few pebbles, which fell past the edge, bouncing and ricocheting against the smooth wall of rock, descending into the nothingness far below.
Now he couldn’t even run anymore. He had come against a natural roadblock—maybe his last? He clutched his head and rocked back and forth on his heels. If I have to sit here until they find me … I’ll be ready for them. He held the gun in his hand, fingering its cold, leaden weight.
Then he narrowed his eyes, a new realization dawning upon him. There’s another way. I might not get to Canada. But that’s not the only way to come out on top. I can still be the victor. They won’t take my life; I’ll take it myself! I’ll beat them to it! I’ll do the very thing my son was too weak to do. I’ve spent my life as I wished. Now I’ll end it as I wish. I’ve done it my way, right to the end.
I’ve won! I really did it!
He took off the safety lock and held the gun to his head, his heart hammering and a grin plastered on his face. No one could ever beat me, not even when everyone was against me. A maniacal laugh chortled in his throat. He pulled the trigger.
A blinding light exploded in his mind. The intensity of it seemed to sear his soul, wrenching open and exposing everything within him. For the briefest moment of time, Barrett paused as he looked within himself, a fraction of hesitancy and self-doubt. The light pulsed, its warmth flowing over and around him. But Barrett steeled himself, casting aside his second of self-reflection. I don’t want it! Get me away from this miserable light! Take it away … leave me alone … I don’t want you!
As suddenly as it came, the light completely vanished, and he descended into a deep, dark, eternal emptiness.
* * *
Clint gulped as he stared out his tinted window. They killed Starkley. We killed her.
Somehow Clint’s large, black SUV appeared shinier and cleaner than new, sparkling like a just-engaged woman’s diamond ring. What a contrast with the bloodshed in literally every street corner in this God-forsaken city. A city of doom. A city of devils.
His usual driver, Ahmed, sat behind the wheel while his capable bodyguard, Zeke, watched carefully from the backseat next to Clint. Thank goodness Clint had Zeke tonight; it’s the only way he would risk this trip. As the SUV sped through a yellow light, he eyed Midtown, or what was left of it. Broken glass, vestiges of looted goods, empty whiskey bottles, and dirty syringes littered Lexington Avenue.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
The SUV swerved without notice, nearly colliding with a taxi. Somehow, they avoided a crash, and the taxi, unflappable, returned on its way, weaving in and out of traffic in its usual, dangerous fashion. Clint’s heart hammered away within his chest. Where is that miserable pale green glass headquarters?
Clint brooded over his imminent meeting. He dreaded seeing that brood of vipers again. This was the United States of America! How could the Presidential Cabinet be so … depraved?
Gunshots surrounded his SUV, crisscrossing Park Avenue. An errant bullet struck the bulletproof glass of Clint’s window, stopped in its tracks as triumphantly as a hockey puck caught by a goalie to save a game.
We have to get the hell out of here.
“Ahmed, can you take the side streets now? We have to avoid main roads if we want to arrive at the headquarters in one piece!”
Even as they turned off of Park onto 34th Street, riots exploded into a fiery cacophony of bullhorn shouting and shameless, glass-shattering looting. After a few more maneuvers and what used to be illegal turns, they arrived at their destination: the NCP headquarters.
Clint shoved his seatbelt away and jumped out of the car, Zeke at his heels. Though the sun had already set, it was particularly dark in this secret basement parking garage. After the usual bioscan, he waited for the elevator floor numbers to slowly turn higher and higher.
64 … 71 … 85 … 98
One more floor. But it’s the nation that’s going down.
Clint had forgotten he was wearing his favorite tie. Tiny white lilies graced its blue face, an almost feminine pattern. Droplets of sweat started to form on his temples, exposed by the dark brown fuzz of his recently sheared crewcut.
99 … Time to face the music.
The JPD officer opened the sealed room, staying outside to provide the utmost privacy for the Cabinet. Clint scanned the room: the usual suspects, minus their fearsome leader, Starkley. Her chair sat empty at the head of the conference table. Who will fill that seat? Would they all destroy themselves to be the one to get it?
“So nice of you to finally show, Hill.” Brooke Hochenshield, the cantankerous Secretary of War, rolled her eyes the way a middle school girl would when told to do something by her mother.
Clint sat in the chair that Zeke pulled out for him at the end of the table. “We almost got into an accident with a—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah … the usual. Overpromise and underdeliver. I get it.”
Before Clint could respond, Pamela Tequora pointed her finger wildly in the air emphasizing her point. “Haven’t you heard? Some party members are turning on us. They’ve seen us dispose of the opposition vermin and can’t handle the extermination. They want the rats to run loose? Well, damn them too!” She had only been Secretary of Homeland Security for about a year and a half, but she had seen enough.
Clint shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat, his heart racing nearly out of his chest. Before he could muster the courage to interject, Mona Pecune jumped in. She was ten years his junior but a veritable firecracker, nonetheless.
“We can damn them all we want, but that doesn’t stop their suspicion. We blamed Starkley’s assassination on those cockroaches. That move might backfire in our faces. Some of the public realize our ruse. The violence disrupts their lives too much, and, if we let this go on much longer, more people will turn on us. And they have strength in numbers. We can easily squash one cockroach underfoot. A thousand, a hundred thousand, a million … we cannot.”
Clint cleared his throat again. “She’s right … I think we should end the violence as soon as—”
His sentence died involuntarily before it could roll off his tongue.
Edith Tutor gave an exaggerated shrug, intensified by passion. “Don’t forget that we are the ones who did it! The military is against us. Who’s next?”
As Starkley’s former vice president, Edith remained somewhat loyal to her now dead running mate. According to the old Constitution, she would now serve as the leader of the free world. Yet the NCP had kicked that Constitution to the curb a good while ago and a nasty power vacuum had ensued. Everything was up for grabs, and Clint didn’t like the spiraling chaos.
“Edith is right on that point at least. I’ll tell you who’s next: the JPD. The JPD has lots of guns and plenty of human power. Who’s to say those bastards won’t turn on us? Who’s keeping them in check?” Brooke Hochenshield eyed the back of the room, as though she thought the senior members of the JPD might still be in the room. Thankfully they had left.
“Nevertheless, we must stay the course.” Edith leaned forward. “We’ve exterminated the opposition in order to save our great nation. We are waging war against the opposition and now that Starkley is dead, I have assumed the role of commander-in-chief. Therefore, I say we—”
“Who says you’re commander-in-chief?” Brooke Hochenshield demanded. “What qualifications do you have to take on that role?”
Mona Pecune scowled. “Hochenshield, no one cares what’s on your CV. No one wants you as commander-in-chief either!”
The argument ended without another word. Like a flash of light, bullets started raining down upon the Cabinet. AK-47s stormed into the tiny meeting room. In all, more than fifteen JPD officers dressed in full riot gear regalia showered ceaseless fire upon the Cabinet, who sat defenseless like lambs before a pack of wolves.
Edith Tudor screamed the loudest, but everyone shouted like frightened toddlers, lost in a department store or nicked by a knife. Zeke, who had stationed himself directly behind Clint during the meeting, now threw Clint to the ground and under the protective cover of the table.
In the chaos that ensued, Zeke found an escape for his client. He held off the rush for just a second or two, enough for Clint to flee the room and storm down the stairs, pounding down several flights before taking the secret elevator in the very center of the building. Scanning his face and fingerprint, the elevator zoomed downwards.
85 … 71 … 64 … 52 …
The seconds seemed like weeks. Clint glanced down at his favorite tie, now speckled with blood from his fellow Cabinet members. Ahmed will be down there when I arrive.
Clint made it to the basement parking garage and found Ahmed sleeping in the driver’s seat, the seatback fully extended.
“Wake up! Wake up! We’ve gotta go … now!”
Ahmed passed from slumber to the cold, hard reality of sheer panic in less than an instant. He sped out of the garage like a frightened chipmunk, leaving nothing but a blur behind.
“They’re all dead. The NCP is dead. I alone have survived to tell the tale.”